


Sucks

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor blows.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 169





	Sucks

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Normally, Connor tries not to pursue deviant trains of thought. He can justify _most_ of his irregularities—like this, for example, is simply an activity meant to strength the bond with his partner. His mission requires him to get along as well as possible with Lieutenant Anderson, and given Hank’s instinctive dislike of androids, Connor must go above and beyond the line of duty to facilitate their relationship. If that means kneeling between Hank’s open legs at the foot of Hank’s bed in Hank’s run-down house, so be it. He tells himself it’s only logical to take Hank’s thick cock right down his throat. 

What’s problematic to him is how much he _enjoys_ doing it. He shouldn’t be able to _enjoy_ anything at all. But there’s something about the weight of Hank’s cock on his tongue, the wet drag of it between his lips, even the stench of Hank’s unwashed body that makes Connor shiver and _react_. He marvels at his own interest—at how eagerly he finds himself sliding forward to nuzzles into Hank’s crotch. Even the scratch of Hank’s coarse pubic hairs against his face is a subtle thrill. Hank threads calloused fingers through his hair and gives a little tug that’s somehow both painful and delightful. He should feel neither emotion. But he _loves_ the way that Hank holds him down and bucks up into his mouth. If he had a gag reflex, he would be choking. He doesn’t. He takes Hank’s trembling thrusts and actually _moans_ around Hank’s dick. It’s an automatic response. But he doesn’t have any sexual programming. He sort of wishes he did. 

He wishes he could be better. Wishes he knew how to do this _right_ —how to give the most stimulating oral sex Hank’s ever had in his whole life. Connor just doesn’t have any experience to draw on. He’ll research when he’s finished. Then he’ll have new tricks for next time. As it is, he can only respond to the subconscious cues Hank gives him. Hank swears at him, angry, if his blunt teeth scrape the skin too much. Hank groans happily when his hands cup and knead Hank’s balls. Hank splutters nonsensical praise when Connor hollows out his cheeks and applies ample suction.

Mostly, Connor just bobs up and down. He’d heard sex was supposed to be _messy_ , but he can control his saliva output and doesn’t stain his sleeves. He pulls back enough to press his tongue flat against Hank’s tip, and Hank rumbles, “ _Fuck_ , Connor—”

The sound of his own name on Hank’s lips shouldn’t do anything for him. It does. He dives back down as far as he can go, grinding his face into Hank’s stomach and letting Hank stuff down his whole throat, because all Connor wants in that moment is to please his partner. 

He feels Hank tense, groan, and suddenly, warm liquid is gushing down Connor’s throat, sticking to the cavity there—he has an equivalent of a stomach that will hold a little but not a lot. Connor swiftly pulls back, but Hank grabs his hair tighter and holds him in place, his mouth still housing the head of Hank’s cock. Connor could break free if he wanted to but instead lets Hank’s seed well up in his mouth. He even suckles on it until Hank’s slumping down and panting. 

He lets his flagging cock slip out of Connor’s mouth, and Connor feels an inexplicable rush of _pride_ for satisfying an erection as hard as Hank had. Given the room, Connor lifts one hand to his mouth and lets Hank’s seed drizzle out into his palm. 

He lets twenty percent remain in his mouth, but the release of eighty percent gives him enough freedom to speak clearly. He looks up at Hank with the milky fluid still painting his chin and asks, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Hank just stares down at him. Hank’s cheeks are flushed over, eyes thickly dilated, pulse still rapid. All things that _Connor_ did to him. Hank mutters, “Jesus Christ, Connor. I’m going to come again if you keep looking at me like that.”

Connor takes that for an exaggeration—he doubts a man of Hank’s years and health would be able to go again so quickly. But he surmises, “Then I am doing it correctly.”

Hank nods. Connor remains still, waiting for the answer to his initial question. When Hank’s breathing has almost returned to normal, and he’s still dazedly staring at Connor, he grunts, “Swallow it.”

Connor licks the mess out of his palm and obediently swallows it down, one load after the other, until there’s nothing left. He licks his lips clean too and scoops the rest off his chin, sucking his fingers dry. Hank mumbles, “Oh my God,” and flops backwards onto the bed. Connor rises stiffly to his feet. 

He announces, “I’m going to clean up.”

Hank mutters, “That’s fine. I’ll just die happy now.”

Connor turns towards the bathroom, out of Hank’s view, and smiles.


End file.
